


Femme Fatale

by binahlance



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF!Reader, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack, Cyborgs, Deadpool easter egg, Deadpool reference, Do not take this fic seriously, Female Reader, Femme Fatale, Gen, Grant Ward is briefly mentioned, Nicki Minaj - Freeform, Plot Twist, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Reader-Insert, Rihanna - Freeform, agents of shield references, assassin!reader, lots of headcanons, lots of witty dialogue, making new friends by trying to kill them, mostly canon compliant, or at least the writer trying to be witty, reader has a colorful personality, reader has a tragic backstory, reader has questionable taste in workout jams, reader is a hydra agent, sort of crack, subtle Deus Ex references, there's some angst in there too, this is full of headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-04-07 20:38:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4277139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binahlance/pseuds/binahlance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reader is a master assassin who can't take anything seriously. This leads to problems when Reader is captured by the Avengers on a mission gone wrong. </p><p>Set after the events of The Winter Soldier but before the events of Age of Ultron. Reader is strongly implied to be female, but anyone is welcome to read and (hopefully) enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Bad Day At the Office for Hydra's Top Assassin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are one of Hydra's top assassins, although you have a reputation as a bit of a wild card. You get called in on a mission that almost makes you miss your training room. (Almost.)

“Sniff, sniff, cries, I done slayed your whole entire f***ing life!

Oh oh, you got some Epsom Salt?

I done balled all day you ain't touched the court!

What? What you tired? You need a break? You was hot when? Ricki Lake!”

Nicki Minaj’s verse pumped through the training facility’s state-of-the-art speakers as you stared down the most unlucky of your handlers, who noticeably cringed as Britney Spears started singing. You took the opportunity to take out his legs, sweeping them out from under him and sending him crashing to the floor. In the split second after his body slammed on the mat, you launched yourself forward, planting one foot on his shoulder and shoving your opposite knee into his solar plexus while your hands deftly pinned his arms to the floor. He struggled under you, trying to twist into a position where he could flip you over. With a bored sigh, you applied slightly more pressure with your knee, eliciting a sharp gasp of pain from your unfortunate sparring partner. He managed to hold out for about 3.5 seconds before he was desperately tapping his fingers on the mat, signalling that he’d had enough. You rolled your eyes and leaped to your feet, offering your hand to help the poor guy up. The entire match had lasted less than forty seconds. It would have been half that time if you hadn’t been given explicit orders not to maim or injure any of your coworkers. You desperately needed a challenge soon, or you might end up going soft like the rest of these goons. 

You missed Agent Ward. The guy had annoyed you to no end with his victim complex, lack of proper emotions, and blind loyalty to John Garrett, but at least he could hold his own against you. He’d even beaten you a few times. Of course, you’d had a lot more training since then. You’d bet you could now take him down in three minutes, tops. Unfortunately, you had no way to test the theory since Ward had been deep undercover and, for obvious reasons, out of contact for quite a while now. You were willing to bet that he was having more fun than you were. 

You sighed and made your way over to the training dummies (which you liked because they were just as capable at fighting back as your human partners, and much less fragile), shaking your hips to the music as you walked. You were aware that every single member of your all-male team of handlers was staring at you. Not that you could really blame them. You were the only woman they’d seen for a long time. (What was up with that? Did Hydra not employ women for field work? How very 1950s of them.) A couple of them also seemed to be seriously judging your taste in workout music, especially when Britney’s “‘Till The World Ends, Femme Fatale Remix” (featuring Ke$ha and your beloved Nicki) ended and switched over to “S and M” by Rihanna. Clearly, these guys did not know how to appreciate motivating workout jams. Not that you were surprised. Hydra seemed to have a strict “No Fun Allowed” policy, which you were just barely allowed to avoid.

That was your arrangement with the organization that had practically raised you for as long as you could clearly remember. They let you play pop music during your training sessions, eat junk food whenever you wanted, and have one day a month off (although you were completely aware of the undercover agent who tailed you on those outings), and you followed their orders without the need for one of those creepy robot eye things. Which seriously grossed you out. No thanks. It was a pretty good setup, considering the circumstances.

You were busy humming along with Rihanna and practicing all the various different ways you knew to incapacitate someone without using your hands when one of the newer members of your team cautiously tried to get your attention. The poor kid couldn’t have been older than twenty, and you imagined that he was a bit terrified of you. Good. People who didn’t have a healthy fear of your abilities really got on your nerves. You smiled sweetly and asked him what he wanted.

“We just got our orders for a new mission. We need to leave in the next twenty minutes.”

You muttered a curse and punched the nearest training dummy in the head, leaving an impressive dent in the reinforced plastic. You were going to have to skip your post-workout shower, which was totally gross. You could handle being covered in blood and dirt, but you drew the line at body odor. Plus, last-minute orders usually meant that the mission was urgent. Which meant that there was a significant threat the needed taking out. You grinned. Maybe you’d get that challenge after all.

 

You sat on the back wall of the helicopter, half-listening to your team leader going over your orders (again) as you suited up. You zipped up your state-of-the-art bulletproof bodysuit, strapped your trusty handguns to the outsides of your thighs, mounted your favorite wrist-canon (which shot mini-darts loaded with a sedative that could knock out an elephant in less than ten seconds), and slid your emergency taser into its hidden holster. What could you say? You liked to be prepared.

The mission was fairly simple, although you were right about it being urgent. What was left of S.H.I.E.L.D. had been attacking Hydra bases around the world for a while now. What made this particular base special was the fact that it housed a research lab that had been trying to reverse-engineer alien weapons stolen from a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility several months earlier. From what was said in the report. It sounded like they were close to achieving their goal. You and your team had orders to defend the base, at least long enough for the scientists to escape with their research. Oh, and there was one more tiny, annoying little detail.  
The people attacking the base weren’t just S.H.I.E.L.D. forces. There were reports of several superhumans as well. No one had specifically identified them as the Avengers, but you knew that your supervisors were worried.  
Finally, some excitement. You might even break a sweat on this one. 

The helicopter hovered while your team got their parachutes ready. You finished before them, leaning out of the open door, wind from the rotors blowing in your face. You looked down at the ground several hundred feet below, where you could see the occasional explosion lighting up the sprawling gray buildings that made up the base. Being so high up made your stomach drop as your senses heightened with the beginning of an adrenaline rush. Unable to wait any longer, you turned to face the team. 

“See ya on the ground, slowpokes.” With that, you launched yourself out of the chopper, laughing as several of your handlers spewed curses and the team leader yelled at you to stop. Too late.

You screamed with excitement (okay, yes, and a little bit of fear) as you plummeted towards the ground. This was always your favorite part of a mission. The feeling of flying and falling at the same time, the wave of adrenaline that made you feel truly alive and primed for battle. 

You engaged your parachute at the last possible moment, going over the mission in your mind as you drifted towards the ground. Essentially, you were supposed to go in with guns blazing and take down everyone who wasn’t wearing standard issue Hydra uniforms. Your kind of mission. You hated the stealth approach. 

You took out three S.H.I.E.L.D. agents before you even hit the ground, with the help of your trusty wrist canon and its tranquilizer darts. You literally landed on top of the fourth agent, knocking him out with a swift blow to the head before whipping out your guns and taking off towards the base at a full run. You took no pleasure in killing people, and tried to avoid it unless absolutely necessary. You figured that these agents, like you and your team, were just doing their job.

Someone had been thoughtful enough to break down the base’s door for you. How considerate. Whoever -- or whatever -- it was, they were strong; they’d have to be to rip through reinforced steel doors and take out the two dozen armed guards positioned in the immediate area. You made sure both of your guns were loaded and ready to fire, just in case they were still nearby.

You cringed as you stepped around the crumpled bodies of incapacitated guards. Talk about a bad day at the office. You imagined most if not all of them would need medical attention. You considered calling it in, but decided against it. You weren’t quite ready to give away your location and be rejoined by your handlers. 

You saw the projectile out of the corner of your eye and barely had time to duck. If you’d been just a fraction of a second slower, you’d definitely have gotten a concussion. Whatever it was, it was fast and shiny and bounced off of the wall behind you. You managed to catch it, wincing as the solid metal slammed into your palm. Yep, that one was gonna leave a bruise. You looked down at the object, eyes widening as your heart rate instantly picked up.

You were holding a very familiar looking shield, even though you’d only ever seen pictures of it. Solid metal, lighter than you’d imagined, with the iconic red, white, and blue pattern. And you were willing to bet that whoever threw it would be eager to take it back from you.

“Damn it.” You quickly turned your communicators back on, speaking into the tiny microphone clipped to your collar. “Guys, this is (Y/N). We’ve got a problem. And it’s big, muscle-y, and has a thing for star spangled spandex--”

You were cut off by all the air leaving your lungs as someone attacked you in a full-body tackle. 

Damn it, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is only my second work on this website, and my first attempt at something more lighthearted and witty, so I hope I'm doing okay. Chapter two is already underway and will be posted as soon as possible.


	2. Six Against One Is Hardly a Fair Fight, But Then Again, What Did You Expect?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You meet the Avengers. It's very violent.

“Bruh.” You groaned, squirming under the weight of the person on top of you, “Personal space.”

You brought your knee up, driving it sharply into your attacker’s rib cage, which succeeded in distracting him long enough for you to push him over and roll on top of him, reversing your positions. You ground one knee into his solar plexus like you had with your sparring partner earlier, not hard enough to kill him, but definitely hard enough to hurt. You stared down at his face which, like his shield, you recognized from pictures in history books. 

“Nice to meet you, Captain. I’m a big fan.” You whipped out one of your guns and pressed it against his chest. “But I’ve got orders.”

Your finger twitched on the trigger, but before you could take the shot you were slightly distracted by the sensation of someone’s foot connecting with the side your head, knocking you off of the disgruntled supersoldier and onto the floor. Your brain throbbed against your skull in an instant migraine, eliciting a pained groan from you. You rolled over onto your back to study your new attacker. Although it took longer than you would have liked since you had to wait a couple of seconds for your vision to stop being blurry.

She towered over you, knees bent in a defensive stance, green eyes scanning you for any sign of retaliation. She wore a skintight suit much like your own, but with even more pockets and holsters for weapons and ammo. One of her heavy black boots was planted about six inches from your face and, more importantly, she had a gun pointed directly between your eyes. Like her teammate, you were quickly able to recognize her.

“I know you.” You launched yourself into the air, managing to knock the loaded gun out of her hand and land back on your feet. “The Black Widow. My handlers have a deep admiration for your work. I think they’re disappointed that I didn’t turn out more like you, to be honest. They’re always comparing my record with yours. It’s kind of annoying, actually.” You frowned, aiming a punch at her nose. “Like you’re my overachieving older sister or something.”

She blocked your punch effortlessly, launching one of her own. “Do I know you?”

You ducked her blow. “Probably not, since I’m considerably better than you lot at not getting my secret identity leaked to the public.” 

Before she could reply, you managed to land a kick in the center of her chest, sending her flying back. Of course, being the Black Widow, it took her approximately half a second to recover and even less to decide that it was time to shut you up. She flew towards you with a series of short-but-brutal attacks, managing to get in several hits and almost knocking you off your feet again. Almost. 

This was getting old. You were here to do a job. You drew your other gun, pointing it at the redhead’s face.

Apparently, she had the same idea at about the same time you did, because you found yourself staring down the barrel of yet another gun. The two of you stared each other down, each with a finger tight on the trigger. 

Your staredown was rudely interrupted by an arrow, which zoomed over your attacker’s head and latched onto your chest. Fortunately, the arrow had a flat, non-lethal tip, which didn’t pierce your skin or injure you in any way. Unfortunately, about two seconds after it hit you, the arrow released an electric shock, effectively distracting and hurting you as well as taking out your communicators. Brilliant. 

As you fired off a round of bullets in the direction the arrow had come from, you contemplated just how very screwed you were. You were trapped inside a fallen Hydra base crawling with S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives, facing off against at least three of the Avengers, you’d lost one of your favorite guns, and now you had no way of calling for backup. 

You didn’t get payed enough for this. Well, technically you didn’t get payed at all, but that was besides the point. ‘Get beaten up by a bunch of superhumans’ was so not on your to-do list for today. 

Time to stop playing around. You grabbed Romanov by the collar, pulling her towards you until your faces were only a few inches apart. You smiled sweetly. “Goodnight.”

You fired a dart from your wrist canon directly into her neck, pushing her away from you as you did so. You shot another dart at her, just for good measure, and watched as she slumped to the floor with an angry and slightly confused expression on her face. This seemed to bother Hawkeye, if the flurry of arrows that hit the wall behind you, barely giving you time to drop to the ground and roll out of the way, was any indication. 

You leaped back to your feet, rolling your shoulders and taking a series of deep breaths. One down, two to go. Assuming that they were the only three here. Which seemed doubtful, now that you thought about it.

Sure enough, as if your thoughts had summoned him, the Hulk chose that precise moment to crash through the ceiling not even thirty feet from where you stood, followed closely by Iron Man and Thor. Because apparently the universe hated you and didn’t think that one you versus two Avengers were bad enough odds. Why not throw in the other three? Thanks, universe.

You groaned. When you said you wanted a bit of a challenge, this was not what you meant. But you were determined not to go down without a fight.

You went in firing darts and bullets (which you quickly realized didn’t work on the Hulk or Iron Man, of course) and swinging punches and kicks at everything within an arm’s reach. You thought you might have managed to hit Thor with a couple of your darts, but it was hard to tell since Captain America seemed determined to use his shield to bash your head in. 

You tried to fire off another round of bullets, but the gun just made an empty clicking noise in your hand. You cursed yourself for not bringing more ammo but, to be fair, you hadn’t expected this kind of a fight. Which, in hindsight, was probably dumb.

Realizing that fighting back was becoming increasingly pointless by the second, you switched your focus to escape. After employing some of your impressive gymnastic skills to dodge around several Avengers, you flipped across the room, dropped down to avoid an onslaught of arrows, and dove headfirst out the nearest window, thanking your lucky stars that you’d run into the Avengers on the first floor. 

You sprinted across the fields surrounding the base like the devil himself was right behind you. As you ran, you cupped your hands around your mouth, preparing to scream for help.

And that was when the flying hammer hit you in the head.


	3. Plot Twist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader wakes up in the Avengers' facility. Her hosts are less than pleased to have her there. Seems like a good time to delve into a bit of tragic backstory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY FOR HOW UNGODLY LONG YOU HAD TO WAIT FOR THIS CHAPTER.
> 
> I actually had most of it written already, but the last couple of weeks have been so full of summer camp, family drama, and wrapping up my summer job, that I've barely even had time to look at a computer. I'm back now, though. 
> 
> I didn't proofread this chapter because I wanted to get it posted for you guys as soon as possible, so please excuse any spelling or grammar mistakes.

“Dude, who puts Rihanna and Fall Out Boy on the same playlist? This chick is definitely crazy.”

“Clint, just because you’ve been listening to nothing but gangsta rap ever since Tony introduced you to it doesn’t mean that other people can’t have taste. I happen to like Fall Out Boy.”

“But One Direction? Taylor Swift? Really? What is she, twelve?”

You let out a low groan. Those creeps were going through your iPod. And whoever dissed T-Swizzle was going to pay with their life. 

“Did you hear that? Do you think she’s waking up?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. You’re making enough noise to wake the dead.”

“Hey!”

You managed to lift your eyelids, which was actually kind of difficult because your head felt like someone had used it for batting practice. You seemed to be slumped on a table of some kind, each of your wrists handcuffed to a heavy metal bar. Standard interrogation room. You lifted your head to stare at the two people who had woken you with their conversation. The Black Widow was sitting in the chair across from you, looking bored and vaguely annoyed. The man standing behind her was someone you’d never met before, but you quickly identified him as Clint Barton, former S.H.I.E.L.D agent, more commonly known by his codename, Hawkeye. Yeah, you’d definitely been captured by enemy forces. Enemy forces who were both looking at you like you’d caused them an extreme inconvenience and they were about to repay the favor.

“Hey, guys.” You smiled weakly at them before turning your attention specifically to Romanov. “Sorry about shooting you. Nothing personal.”

“I’m actually quite impressed,” she purred, but you sensed something dark under her friendly tone. “Not many people have managed to take me down before.” She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. “So where did you learn it? I know you’re not from the Red Room. I would’ve recognized you if you were.” 

“I’m with Hydra, actually.” You shrugged, realizing how pointless it would be to lie to them. “But I think my trainers took a couple of pages out of your people’s book. Like I said before, I imagine they expected me to turn out a lot more like you.” 

“Why Hydra?” Barton spoke this time, crossing his arms and glaring at you. “No offense, but you don’t really seem like the Neo-Nazi, world domination type.”

“I never said I agreed with their cause.” You rolled your eyes and shifted, trying to work into a comfortable position despite the handcuffs. “I just work for them. So did a big part of the organization you two work for, unless I’m mistaken. Which I know I’m not.”

“Used to work for.” Romanov corrected smoothly, standing up so she could more effectively tower over you. “The S.H.I.E.L.D. I worked for was gone. Which means,” she leaned very close to your face, “that I no longer have to play by their rules when it comes to how I deal with prisoners.”

“Point taken.” Something occurred to you then, quickly drawing your train of thought away from the obvious threat. “Uh, is Tony Stark here? I know he pals around with you guys, and I’m guessing he also pays for most of your toys. I really need to talk to him, like, now. Please.” 

Barton looked surprised, but quickly recovered. “You don’t get to make demands.”

“It’s not a demand. It’s a request.” You shrugged. “Although I can promise you that there’s lots of juicy Hydra knowledge floating around in this old thing.” You tapped your head, which was a bit difficult, what with the cuffs. “And I’m not going to tell you any of it until I talk to Stark.” 

They spent several minutes firing questions and threats at you but, true to your word, you refused to give them answers. Instead, you treated them to lots of witty sarcasm, a few catty insults, and a couple of bad puns. Barton seemed half-amused, half-annoyed by your antics, while Romanov wore the exasperated expression of one dealing with an exceptionally obnoxious five-year-old. They’d been going at you for half an hour, yet they didn’t seem to be making any progress at all.

About forty minutes after you’d woken up, a voice crackled over the hidden speakers you hadn’t realized the interrogation room had. “Uh, guys?” You quickly recognized the man speaking as Stark himself. “Maybe you should let me try. As amusing as it is to watch her push Nat’s buttons, we do need actual answers. I’ll bring the Capsicle with me. Maybe some righteous, patriotic anger will get her talking.”

A few moments later, the small interrogation room suddenly felt very crowded. For one thing, you were fairly sure that the Captain’s shoulders were broad enough to fill half the space on their own. Sure, you’d known he was a super solider, but dang. He stood the farthest from you, back against the wall, probably determined to observe until the situation called for his intervention. Romanov and Barton stood a bit closer, each of them glaring at you with their arms crossed in identical annoyed posture. Stark pulled out the chair next to you, sitting down and leaning forward with his chin propped on his hands like a twelve year old girl at a slumber party.

“So, I’ve heard you’re a fan of mine.”

You stared at him with a completely blank expression and spoke in a disinterested monotone. “I need you to dismantle my leg.”

Stark did a double take. “Excuse me?”

“You’re the resident technology expert, right?” With some difficulty, you managed to lift your right leg, slamming it on the table with a solid thunk -- way too heavy to be a normal human leg. “So do your thing.”

He stared at your face, then at your leg, then back at your face again. Finally, he turned to the other Avengers. “Clint, can you help me with this?”

Barton, of course, happened to have a knife on him, which he used to cut open the leg of your bodysuit, revealing your dirty little secret: your right leg was a mess of flesh and pink scar tissue fused to glittering metal. It started just above your knee, and continued downwards. The closer to your foot, the more metal and the less flesh. Your foot itself, as well as your ankle, were completely metal. Why they didn’t just chop the whole thing off and give you a new one was completely beyond you. Maybe this way was cheaper, or maybe they’d been testing experimental cybernetic implants. Whatever the case, you’d always thought it looked both badass and ugly. 

Stark was staring at your leg with something like admiration on his face. “This is incredible. The technology--”

“Yeah, yeah. Cutting edge, disgusting, looks like something out of a science fiction movie -- whatever you’re gonna say, I’ve heard it before.” You glared at him. “The thing is, Hydra doesn’t trust me very much, which is understandable. So, just in case I ever ran away or got my fool self captured, they installed a failsafe when they were putting in my new robot parts.” You flexed your foot, which made a small mechanical whirring noise. “I don’t know exactly where it is, but it’s in there somewhere. An explosive device, programmed to detonate forty-eight hours after I’m reported missing.”

Everyone in the room stared at you like you’d just grown a second head, which actually wasn’t too far off from the truth. It’s not everyday that your prisoner reveals that she’s not only a trained assassin, but also a cyborg and a bomb. You imagined you’d probably be pretty shocked, too.

“So…” You managed to lift your cuffed hands enough to poke Stark’s arm. “Can you find it and defuse it, or are you guys gonna throw me down a well and wait for it to go off?”

“I...” He sighed, running a hand over his face. “I should be able to do it. We still have, what, thirty-something hours? Should be enough time. I’ll see if I can get Bruce to help me.” He raised his voice and looked up at the ceiling. “JARVIS, can you prep the lab for… whatever it’s called when you take apart someone’s cyborg leg?”

An expressionless voice with a British accent echoed through the room. “Of course, sir.” 

Stark turned back to you. “Do you know anything about the technology, or the procedure they used to install it?”

“Sorry,” you shrugged. “I was unconscious the whole time. And what I remember of the recovery is pretty foggy, too.” You tapped your head with your index finger. “Amnesia, caused by brain damage from the accident that destroyed my old leg in the first place. Car crash. Killed my entire family. Or so they tell me.”

“You didn’t volunteer for Hydra, did you?” Rogers suddenly spoke up, drawing everyone’s attention. 

You kept silent. How you ended up in this line of work was none of their business. Even if he was completely correct in his guess that it hadn’t exactly been your first career choice. You were just glad that they could only see your leg. The rest of your body, particularly your back, was littered with a variety of scars that told the story of several failed escape attempts. 

“Cap, can you help me get her out of here and into the lab?” Stark turned to the other Avengers, acting as if you weren’t right there in front of her. “I have a feeling we’ve got a long night ahead.”

 

“Can you feel this?”

“Ouch! Yes!” You squirmed, fighting the instinct to kick in retaliation. With your reinforced metal foot, a kick in the face could be deadly. Or at least, very very painful.

“Amazing.” Dr. Banner bent closer to your leg, continuing to poke at one of the robotic bits with his tweezers. “They wired your nerves into the cybernetics. When one of your robotic assets is damaged, it registers as pain.”

“Yep. I’m truly a masterpiece of freaky technological advancement. I won first place in the evil terrorist science fair.” You joked, wincing as Dr. Banner continued to pick at the wires just below your knee. 

“You know,” Stark spoke as he bustled over to the lab table you were currently perched on, carrying a box of what looked suspiciously like spare parts. “You have a better sense of humor than any of the other Hydra agents I’ve encountered.”

“Tell me about it.” You groaned, rolling your eyes. “Have you ever been inside a Hydra facility? Lemme tell you, the employee Christmas parties suck.”

Dr. Banner actually laughed at that one. “I like her.”

You beamed. “Thank you, Doctor. If it means anything, you are by far the most tolerable Avenger I have met today.”

“Hey!” Tony glared at you through a pair of weird protective goggles, which was actually kind of terrifying. “Don’t forget who the robotics expert is here. He’s just here to make sure I don’t accidentally kill you.”

“Comforting.” You muttered.  
Stark ran his hands over your foot, poking and prodding at the metal in certain places. Finally, he found what he was looking for, letting out a quiet little “Ha!” before flipping open a panel that blended almost seamlessly with the metal around it. Inside the tiny compartment was a mess of wires that vaguely resembled a bird’s nest. He took the tweezers from Dr. Banner, poking around and gingerly lifting wires.

“So…” You stared at the inner workings of your foot. “Do you have any kind of experience in taking apart cyborg parts?”

“Not really.” He muttered, moving aside wires and tiny microchips. 

Suddenly a shock of pain ran up your leg, causing you to yelp and grip the table so hard your knuckles turned white. “What was that?!”

“Uh…” Stark was frozen in place, staring down at your foot.

You peaked around him, and saw that he had pushed aside enough wires to reveal a tiny digital clock wired into a vial of liquid that looked like yellow paint, but shinier. What really worried you was that time on the clock, which was ticking down. It said that you only had ten minutes.


	4. Finally, The Writer Got Around To Writing A Gosh Darn Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The writer spontaneously remembers this fic that she started like a year ago, feels bad, writes that final chapter she was planning. Oops, sorry guys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY. IT HAS BEEN AN OBSCENELY LONG TIME SINCE I UPDATED THIS, AND FOR THAT I DEEPLY APOLOGIZE.
> 
> You probably don't want to hear my excuses, but the truth is, school started before I could crank out the fourth and final chapter to this little fic, and I've been nonstop busy since then. And now that the school year is winding down, I finally have time to write the conclusion. 
> 
> I want to get back into writing, so I figured I'd start by finishing this story! I really hope this ending is satisfying, and I'm really sorry that you've had to wait so long for it.

You woke to sunlight streaming in through the windows. You groaned and nestled deeper into the soft sheets, not quite ready to give up your blissful sleep. You needed at least another hour in bed, then maybe you’d think about getting up to start the coffee maker. You curled your fist in the blankets, thanking your lucky stars that it was one of your rare days off.

And then you remembered. The mission gone south. The Avengers. The bomb in your foot.

You sat up with a start, throwing the sheets aside to reveal your leg, now covered in a patchwork of bandages and shiny new cybernetics, ending in a rather unattractive metal stump. You really couldn’t wait for Tony to finish your new foot -- being reduced to hobbling around on crutches was seriously killing the “deadly cyborg assassin” thing you had going here.

You remembered how your heart had pounded when you saw the clock in your foot and realized that Stark’s tampering had accidentally triggered the bomb. He’d frantically gone to work on your leg, snipping wires and poking at the electronic components and muttering a string of words so filthy that even you wouldn’t dare repeat them. Bruce had stood by, looking very stressed and possibly nauseous and offering occasional advice or encouragement. By the time the other members of their team burst into the room and started demanding to know what was wrong, all three of you were nervous wrecks.

Tony had managed to defuse the bomb with exactly one minute and forty-eight seconds left on the clock. By that point, it had been decided that if the timer got down to the one minute mark, they were going to have to saw off your foot and ankle in order to keep you from blowing up along with it. When the countdown froze, everyone in the room seemed to let out a communal sigh of relief.

And if any of the Avengers had noticed your quiet sobbing in the last minute or so of the ordeal, they’d been respectful enough never to mention it. You appreciated that.

With a small groan, you sat up in bed and stretched your arms over your head. In the six weeks since your first meeting, the team had proven to be excellent hosts. They’d given you a very large, very private bedroom (“Although we will be keeping you on 24/7 surveillance until we know for sure that you’re trustworthy,” Agent Romanoff had warned you), and they’d defended your innocence to the Powers That Be by proving that you’d been just another of Hydra’s victims and, therefore, not a terrorist. Once you’d been cleared, Tony had started on the daunting task of slowly replacing all of the mechanical bits of your leg with Stark Industries tech, since the government wanted to confiscate all of your old “enhancements” as evidence. Your leg had been finished for over a week now; you were just waiting on Tony to put the finishing touches on your new robot foot.

After several frustrating minutes of hopping around your bedroom and the attached bathroom in an effort to make yourself more presentable, you grudgingly took up your crutches and decided to head downstairs. Maybe one of the guys had already gotten started on breakfast. Hopefully Clint, since he seemed to be the only one with any real cooking skills.

The kitchen was suspiciously empty, which meant either everyone was out on a late night mission and was currently catching up on their beauty sleep, or you’d slept later than you thought and they’d all already started the day without you. Either way, it looked like you weren’t getting any of Clint’s pancakes. Damn it.

You’d just settled down on the living room couch with a bowl of cereal (not even good cereal, because Thor had eaten all the Lucky Charms again, the heartless monster) when the back door swung open to reveal Captain America. You noted that he was wearing sweats and looked slightly less perfect and put-together than usual, so it was safe to assume that he’d just returned from his morning jog. If you could call seven miles uphill a jog. What a freak.

“Hey Steve,” You smiled sweetly, waving your spoon in greeting. You got along with Steve fairly well, and you were pretty sure he liked you. Liked you, but maybe didn’t necessarily trust you. Which was fair, considering that a month and a half ago you had actively tried to kill him.

“Hey.” He wandered past you into the kitchen, only to return moments later with a glass of water. “How’re you holding up?”

“Same old.” You shrugged. “Can’t wait for my new foot.” You used your good (i.e. only) foot to kick at your crutches, which you’d dropped carelessly on the floor by the couch. “I hate these things so much.”

Steve chuckled and sat down on the loveseat across from you. “At least your shining optimism hasn’t suffered at all. Do you know if anyone else is up yet?”

“I am.” Natasha seemingly appeared from nowhere, which was a habit of hers that never failed to make you jump. 

“Clint’s awake, too. But he’ll probably be a while -- I just won our sparring match, and it wasn’t pretty.” She gracefully seated herself next to Steve, and you saw that she had indeed been training: she wore a plain grey tank top and black shorts, had her bright red hair up in a messy bun, and was breathing just a bit more heavily than normal. She gave you a quick once over -- out of the whole team, Natasha was proving to be the most reluctant to trust you. Which made sense, as it was her job not to trust anybody. And she was very good at her job.

You shook your head, swallowing a mouthful of cereal. “You people are terrifying. Who works out before breakfast? And why do none of you ever look gross after you exercise? You’re all robots, aren’t you?”

“Nah, the only robots around here are you and Tony.” Clint panted as he stumbled through the training room door. Natasha hadn’t been kidding -- the aftermath of their sparring match really wasn’t pretty. His red T-shirt was stained with sweat, his breathing labored like someone who had just run a marathon (or, you know, gone hand to hand with the world’s deadliest assassin), and he was rubbing his side, which you were willing to bet would be covered in bruises in a few hours.

“I’m a cyborg, thank you very much.” You scooted over to make room for him. “Although I’m told that the new, politically correct term is ‘mechanically augmented persons.’ Apparently there’s enough of us now that they need a name for it.”

“Whatever.” He gracelessly collapsed onto the couch next to you. Clint was cool, Clint was your buddy. He’d warmed up to you the fastest after the team decided not to hand you over to the government to be processed as a terrorist. You weren’t sure if you’d known him long enough to consider him a friend, but he was definitely the closest thing you had to one.

“At least I know that Clint is human.” You gently patted his sweaty shoulder. “And Thor is a demigod, so of course he always looks flawless. But you two--” You gestured to the super soldier and the spy seated across from you, “-- are just freaks. Perfect, ridiculously attractive freaks.”

“Speaking of Thor, where is he?” Steve purposely ignored your last comment. “I haven’t seen him around for a few days.”

“He’s on vacation.” Natasha smirked, crossing her arms in classic I-know-everything posture. “He wouldn’t say where he was going, but I’m pretty sure he’s visiting his lady friend. He got all flustered when I asked about it.”

“I wish he’d bring Jane around here more.” You muttered. “Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning in the testosterone.”

“You and me both.” Natasha nodded solemnly. 

Jane Foster had only visited the Avengers facility once since you’d been staying there, but you’d taken an instant liking to her. She was kind, friendly, and could hold her own against both Bruce and Tony in scientific debates that made your head spin. Cybernetics weren’t her strong suit, but she’d taken a look at your leg anyway, more out of curiosity than because she thought she could help. You liked Jane a lot, and the two of you now exchanged emails on a semi-regular basis. As for her Asgardian boyfriend, you weren’t really sure where you stood with him, as you’d probably spent less time around him than any of the other team members. You were pretty sure he liked you, but then again, Thor seemed to like everyone. If you were honest with yourself, you were a little intimidated by him. Maybe it was paranoia, but you got antsy around anyone who literally had the ability to call down lightning at any given moment. 

“Hey guys, can you send Inspector Gadget down to the lab? I need to make sure her new prosthetic fits.” Tony’s voice rang through the Intercom, pulling you out of your thoughts.

You sighed. “He’s never going to stop with the stupid nicknames, is he?” You handed your half-empty bowl of cereal to Clint, who immediately started digging in, grabbed your crutches, and started off on the long hobble to the lab.

When you finally made it, you found Bruce waiting for you inside. His face brightened when he saw you. “Hey! How are those new augmentations working out for you?”

“Hey Bruce! Everything seems fine so far.” You held out your right leg and waved your ankle stump around to emphasize your point.

You followed him deeper into the lab, where he told you Tony was putting the finishing touches on your new foot. Your relationship with Bruce was odd, but comfortable. You wouldn’t really say that you were friends, but you definitely liked and respected the guy, and you sensed that the feeling was mutual. You were always polite and friendly with each other, and you appreciated him helping with your new “augmentations,” as he called them. 

The two of you found Tony at one of his work tables, wearing the same outfit he’d been wearing the last time you saw him (two days ago) and surrounded by empty coffee mugs and takeout containers. You felt bad that he’d obviously been pulling all nighters to finish your new prosthetic, but you were overjoyed by the possibility of finally being able to walk again.

“Hey, Hop-Along!” He waved cheerfully. “I think I’ve finally got this thing in working order. Care to come try it on?”

“If it means no more crutches-based humor, I’ll do anything.” You handed Bruce said crutches and waved off his attempt to help you up onto the lab table. 

Despite his teasing, you were pretty sure Tony liked you. You knew that he at least enjoyed working on your new tech, if nothing else. But he’d also been the first to rise to your defense when the government tried to arrest you, so you figured he must at least be kind of fond of you. Or maybe he just didn’t want to lose his new tinkering project. Whatever the case, you were grateful.

“Alright.” Tony held up your new foot, which you couldn’t help but admire. It was smaller and sleeker than the old one, almost exactly the same size and shape as your remaining flesh-and-bone foot, made out of fitted metal plates that, you imagined, would have greater mobility than the old prosthetic. Most importantly, this one didn’t have any hidden explosives rigged to blow you up if you stepped out of line. “This shouldn’t hurt, and if it does we’ve got big problems, so let me know if you feel anything other than very mild discomfort.”

“That’s reassuring.” You rolled your eyes, but failed to keep the excited smile off your face. “Ready when you are.”

There was a soft magnetic hum as he connected the foot to your ankle joint. A small electric buzz shot up your leg, but it wasn’t painful. You tried to wiggle your toes, but the new foot didn’t respond. You frowned. “I can’t move it.”

“Give it a few seconds.” Tony was hovering around your prosthetic like an anxious mother over her newborn baby. “The system needs to connect. Do you know how complicated this technology is? The wiring--”

You held up a hand to stop him. “Spare me the detailed explanation. We both know that I won’t understand a word of it. Just let me know when to try moving it again.”

“Try it… now.” 

You gave a determined nod and tried to flex your foot. The prosthetic responded, letting out a nearly inaudible mechanical whirring. You’d been right, this new one did have more mobility than the original.

“It works! This is amazing, I--” You jumped to your feet -- and immediately lost your balance and toppled over. You would have landed facedown on the floor if Tony and Bruce hadn’t both rushed forward to catch you.

“Careful. It’s going to take some getting used to.” Bruce smiled reassuringly. “Probably no more than a few weeks of physical therapy, though. You should be able to run and jump again by this time next month.”

You nodded slowly. You hadn’t considered the possibility of physical therapy, but it made sense. You could work with that. 

“It’s a major upgrade, too.” Tony was more excited than you’d seen him in weeks. “It weighs less than the old one, with enough shock absorption that you could jump off of a building, if you really wanted to. As long as you land on your right side, because the bones in your left foot would shatter on impact. Bruce wouldn’t let me add any defensive systems--”

“Thank you, Bruce.” You interrupted quickly. “I prefer to keep my weapons outside my body, if possible.”

“The point is, it shouldn’t slow you down at all.” Tony rattled on, ignoring your remark. “In fact, it could be a real asset to you, once you learn how to use it properly. After a few months of training, you might even be able to keep up with the rest of the team.”

“Mr. Stark,” you spoke slowly, “Are you offering me a job?”

“Not on the record. Not yet.” He shrugged. “But we have these… Avengers Reserves, you could say. Super-people who aren’t technically on the team, but are on standby in case we ever need the backup. You’ve heard of War Machine, right? And Steve’s friend Sam -- pretty cool guy. There’s plenty of spots open, if you’re interested.”

You looked at Bruce. “How does the rest of the team feel about this? I was under the impression that I was still on probation.”

“We’ve had several group discussions about it.” Bruce leaned back against the lab table. “Certain team members think that if you were going to betray us, you’d have done it already, while others still aren’t convinced that you’re 100% trustworthy. But we all agree that, for now, the safest place for you is here, where we can keep an eye on you. And Tony’s right: With proper training, you could be a valuable addition to the team.”

“Plus, your old boss probably isn’t all that happy with you right now.” Tony threw an arm around your shoulders. “What, with you handing over all those juicy Hydra secrets and helping us pinpoint the locations of their remaining strongholds. Thanks for that, by the way. But it’s unlikely that you’ll get your old job back, and joining the Avengers definitely beats unemployment, right?”

“I don’t know. I have some serious connections in the mercenary business.” You half-joked. “I was thinking of calling up my friend Wade and asking for career advice. I hear you can make a lot of money killing people, if you’re good at it.”

“Yeah, except then you’d be a criminal, and the team would have to hunt you down and arrest you, which would be awkward.” Tony shook his head. “Imagine what a mess that would be. Superheroes fighting other superheroes. Ridiculous, am I right?”

“Good point. How’s your health insurance? Do you guys have dental?” 

Tony laughed, then suddenly became serious. “Does this mean you’re in?”

You smiled. “It means I’m interested. We can discuss the details while you help me figure out how to walk on this new foot. Because I am never, ever using crutches again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was an okay ending! As I was rereading the previous chapters and writing this conclusion, I remembered how much I loved writing this story, so I could most definitely be convinced to write a sequel to this, if anyone was interested. (Maybe a one-shot where reader is introduced to a certain other former-Hydra assassin with a metal limb, possibly set during/immediately after Civil War? Maybe some post-AOU-but-pre-CA:CW shenanigans featuring Sam, Wanda, Vision, and Rhodey? Who knows!) It's a nice change of pace from the fake-deep angst fests that I usually write.
> 
> And yeah I know I threw some shade on Civil War with that second-to-last line, but I genuinely love that movie so don't worry. It might not have quite beaten out The Winter Soldier as my All Time Favorite MCU Movie, but it's definitely tied with Guardians Of The Galaxy for second place.


End file.
